Wednesday, 4 January 2017

Test

The woman who pricks my thumb has purple hair; she’s fifty if she’s a day.
Opening my eyes as she pipettes a globule of my blood, she smiles; remembers me
telling her of my fear.

‘I don’t mind blood, although preferably that belonging to someone
else,’ I remind her. ‘But I could never be a junkie, I have a dread of
needles.’

‘That’s a good thing,’ she responds as she walks away, her white coat
fanning out behind her. I think of her as my Persil Vampire, dream of her fangs
against my throat. It’s only needles I‘m afraid of.